


lay you down your weary head

by unheard_secret



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M, an in-universe alternate of season 3
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-12
Updated: 2014-02-18
Packaged: 2018-01-12 02:37:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 17,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1180926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unheard_secret/pseuds/unheard_secret
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles wakes up at two in the morning. His room is dark and his mouth tastes like sour milk. He sits up and presses his knuckles to his forehead. His brain seems to be throbbing in time with his heart. He can feel every muscle running from his shoulder-blade to his neck, and all of them are tense and knotted. He curls over his legs and feels water leak from the corners of his eyes at the pain. </p><p>“God,” he gasps.</p><p>Then he wakes up. </p><p>[In which Stiles saves himself.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is *not* going to be 3B compliant. I started writing this after Illuminated (when the show first hinted that something really big was going on with Stiles) so, while it may pull on things that happen in later episodes, it is not going to be compliant with later episodes. 
> 
> The end game of this fic is Derek/Stiles, but it will probably take awhile to get there. Please comment. It really is appreciated.

**Stiles**

There is chalk on his hand and phosphorescent paint on his cheek. Stiles goes home. He stands in his bedroom, looks at his unmade bed and feels exhausted. 

He doesn't sleep. 

…

There is a rap on the window. “Stiles? Can I come in?”

Stiles looks up and sees Scott, leaning against the window, standing on the roof outside. He frowns and looks back at his crime wall. The red string has been pulled down. Stiles hasn't put anything in its place. The window is open and Scott lets himself inside. “What are you doing?”

Stiles shrugs. “Nothing important.” He is so tired, he feels like there's grit caught beneath his eyelids. His shoulders ache from tension. He hasn't moved in four hours. 

Scott pushes his hair back from his face and stares at the wall. “What's this?” he asks. “It looks...”

“Like a mess?”

“Complicated,” says Scott. “What are you trying to do?”

Stiles lies back on his bed and stares up at the ceiling. He doesn't blink. He hasn't slept in over thirty hours. “I'm trying to find out what happened with Kira. At the electrical substation. I – I want to know. It feels important.”

Scott waves a dismissive hand. “Don't worry about that now. I'm here because something happened at the rave. After you left.”

“What?” Stiles doesn't sit up. Scott sits on the bed and leans over him. He looks concerned, but he's already distracted by whatever it is he needs to say. Stiles turns his head away.

“There were these five men,” says Scott. “They were, like, made of shadows. Or mist, or something. They marked Lydia, Derek, Ethan, Aiden and Isaac. None of us know what it means. Derek, Lydia and the twins are on the way to Deaton's. They're taking Kira with them. She saw everything, so there's no point hiding things from her now. Allison and Isaac have gone to talk to Mr Argent. Apparently he knew something. I've come to get you. We can go to Deaton together.”

Stiles blinks tiredly and turned back to Scott. “Derek's back?” 

“That's what you got from that?” asks Scott. “Dude. Men made from shadow mist!”

Stiles frowns and sits up, pressing his palm to his forehead. There's a dull ache throbbing behind his eyes. He takes a deep breath.

“You are going to come to Deaton's, aren't you?” says Scott, sounding worried. “It's just it wouldn't feel right if you weren't there. We'd probably miss something totally obvious.”

Stiles looks up. “I'll come,” he says. “Just let me grab a jacket.” He stumbles over to his closet and pulls out his red hoodie. It gets tangled around his chest but he tugs it down, following Scott downstairs. 

…

Stiles feels like his head is filled with a thick fog. His eyes burn, and he can't figure out if it's lack of sleep or trapped tears. He rests his head against his car seat for several minutes before opening his door and hopping out. His feet crunch on the gravel. Scott is giving him a confused look again. “Sorry,” says Stiles. “I'm just tired.” He gives a wan smile.

Scott frowns, looking concerned, but his confusion clears and he doesn't look as troubled by Stiles behaviour. “I suppose we all are,” he says. “I haven't slept since yesterday.”

Stiles nods and pats Scott on the shoulder. “But not all of us have that awesome alpha healing. I'm wrecked. I'll be travelling home at ten miles an hour.”

Scott's mouth twists with worry. “Will you be all right driving alone?”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “I don't need a nanny, Scott. I'll take it carefully. Now where's Deaton. I hope he hasn't decided to start without us.”

Inside, Deaton's surgery is crowded. Stiles pauses inside the door, unable to prevent his eyes travelling to the back of the room. Scott hadn't been lying. Derek is standing there with his arms crossed and a scowl on his face. “Nice of you to let everyone know you were back,” he says. “Where's Cora?”

Derek's scowl deepens and he glances at Stiles. “She stayed behind in Mexico. She found a pack there. I wasn't going to drag her away. Not when I was coming back to Beacon Hills.”

“But you couldn't stay away?” says Stiles. He knows he's poking, but he can't help it. “Because you must have so many happy memories just begging you to return.”

Derek growls and Scott puts his hand on Stiles shoulder, silently asking him to shut the fuck up. Stiles does, but only because he didn't actually come all this way to bait Derek. Deaton is standing at the front of the room, like a lecturer addressing his class. Stiles moves to stand beside Lydia near the front. Lydia doesn't look at him. Her eyes are glassy and she looks like she's having difficulty breathing. 

“They're here now,” she says. “Can you please tell us what – what those things were? Why did they mark us? Why did they mark me?”

Deaton crosses his arms and looks solemn. Stiles tilts his head to the side. He can feel his eyes sliding to a close, but he forces them open. He needs to listen. Even if Deaton is just going to feed them a whole load of cryptic bullshit, he needs to listen. It could save their lives one day. He can't trust anyone else to put things together. 

Well – normally he could trust Lydia. But even she isn't immune to the effects of trauma, and if Scott had been telling the truth, she had almost frozen to death tonight. 

“I sounds like the creatures you're describing are the Oni,” says Deaton. His brow furrows and he looks troubled. Stiles doesn't take that as a good sign. 

“What are the Oni?” asks Scott, stepping forward. Stiles raises an eyebrow. He sneaks a glance in Derek's direction, but he doesn't look agitated by Scott's decision to speak for the group. Stiles wonders what happened to the 'I'm the alpha' attitude. Derek never would have let Scott talk for him before. Maybe his impromptu road trip has helped him grow up... Stiles rolls his eyes and tells himself not to get to carried away. 

“The Oni are a warning,” says Deaton, “for something a thousand times worse. They appear whenever evil spirit is being born. They come to fight for the evil spirit's host.”

“But what does that mean?” asks Lydia, her voice high. “Being marked?”

“It means that the Oni thought that you might be possessed by an evil spirit” He paused and ran a hand over his scalp. “The marking on the back of your neck – it means that you are yourself. That, whatever test the Oni's run, you have passed.”

“So, not bad then?” asks Stiles.

“Not bad,” confirmed Deaton, and the tension coiled in the room eases. Lydia gives out a soft, unintentional huff of air, suspiciously close to a sob, and wraps her arms around her stomach. 

“Why them?” asks Scott. He steps forward, moving up beside Stiles. “Even if it's not bad, why did it go after them?”

Deaton sighs and looks down at the floor. When he looks up again his eyes were dark. “You are all creatures of the supernatural. Whatever the evil spirit is – it would be drawn to you as a host.”

Stiles crosses his arms over his chest. “What do you mean 'whatever the evil spirit'?” he asks. “It could be more than one sort?” Deaton shrugs and holds out his hands in the universal gesture of 'I've got nothing.' Stiles grits his teeth. “Surely you know something more than 'it's an evil spirit'?”

Deaton crosses his arms again and nods slowly. “I could guess a little,” he admits. “But very little of it is useful. I have heard of the Oni... I have even heard of the spirits they chase. But I cannot tell you what sort of spirit they may be here to kill.”

…

Stiles can feel anger burning behind his eyes as he travels home. His fingers are twitching and his teeth ache. He can't pretend that Deaton's news is welcome. 

He parks in the drive to his home, staring at the closed garage door. He rubs at his mouth with the knuckles of his left hand, hard enough to bruise his lips. He leans forward, his head against the wheel, and tries to ignore the gasping, gulping breaths that are tearing at his throat. 

He just needs to sleep, that's all. 

He makes his way up to his room, locking every door behind him. In his bedroom, he drags his desk over the door and pulls his bookshelf in front of the window. Then he turns on all the lights.

It takes a long time for him to fall asleep.

…

When he wakes up he wonders why he's sleeping on his floor. Then he remembers the night before, and remembers that he went to sleep in his bed. He closes his eyes, squeezing them tight before opening them again. 

He looks around his room, not sure what to expect. Nothing seems to be different. The desk and bookshelf haven't moved. The room is dark, and he can't see clearly in the dim light, but everything looks the same. 

He stands slowly and crawls into bed, pulling the duvet over his shoulders.

…

He wakes up. The lights are on. He's naked and standing in front of his evidence board. There's an uncapped marker in his hand, and... he looks at his arm. There are spirals inscribed on his skin, twisting up his arm and down his torso. Stiles spins around and stares at himself in the mirror. The spirals are everywhere – they're in his hair, they're one his legs, they...

His eyes widen as the spirals twist and turn, writing something in a language that Stiles has never seen before...

…

Stiles wakes up. The lights are on. He's in his bed, wearing his pyjamas. The bookshelf and desk are where he left them. 

His chair is overturned, and he has torn his evidence board to shreds in the night. 

Stiles turns over and stares blindly at his door, waiting for the sound of his dad to get in from work. 

He doesn't sleep again that night.

…

When Stiles gets up there are four missed calls on his phone and five texts. All of them are from the night before. He flicks through them. Three are from Scott, trying to get hold of him before he'd come over to drag him to Deaton personally. One is from Allison saying that he should probably try and call Scott. 

One of them is from Derek. It just says, _I'm back. Come to Deaton's._ He'd sent it even before Scott had tried to call.

Stiles eats his breakfast and tosses his phone onto the table in front of him. 

…

The first bell is ringing as Stiles walks into the school. He doesn't hurry. His first class is history, and he won't be more than five minutes late. Kira's dad is new. He won't put him on detention for that.

Scott gives him an odd look when he sits down near him in the classroom. He leans over and says, “Where were you? I had something to tell you.”

Stiles shrugs. “Tell me at lunch.”

“McCall? Stilinksi? Care to share with the class?” Kira's dad pauses at the lectern that he insists on setting up at the front of the class. Stiles slides lower in his chair. Scott fumbles and mutters, “No. Sorry.”

Kira's dad given them a firm look. “No talking in class,” he says. “Not unless I say.”

Scott blushes. Stiles closes his eyes and opens them. He still can't read the writing on the board. 

…

At lunch, Scott is waiting outside the maths classroom to talk to Stiles. “Where were you this morning? You're never late. Nevermind, I really need to tell you something. There's this thing about Kira – but you can't let her know that I told you! She's...”

Stiles holds up a hand and walks down the corridor. He pauses beside his locker, leaning against the door, and pretending to fiddle with his lock. “Now tell me,” he says. “What happened?”

“Kira! It's like she's surrounded by a fox. Made of fire!”

Stiles sighs and runs a hand through his hair. He wonders if Scott is ever going to learn that sometimes throwing words into the air doesn't turn them into meaningful sentences. “Scott? That made no sense. What do you mean it's like she's surrounded by a fox?”

Scott grimaces and looks around, eyeing the students walking past them in the corridor with a suspicious expression. Stiles rolls his eyes. Scott hadn't been all that concerned about people listening in a second ago. “It's Kira,” Scott says, leaning in close. “She has this... it's almost like an aura of fire surrounding her. I can see it when I shift? Anyway, the aura looks like a fox.” He pauses and a vaguely dreamy look that Stiles remembers all too well passes across his face. “It's actually rather beautiful.”

Stiles frowns. “What do you mean aura?” he asks. “Like an outline made of fire?”

Scott nodded. “That's it exactly. Kira doesn't know what it is. She said it only appeared a few months ago. She seems a bit scared of it, actually. But I don't think it's evil? It doesn't look evil?”

“How do you know?” 

“I just, uh – know?” 

Stiles sighs. “You really have a way with words, don't you?” he says. “So, what? You want me to figure out what this thing is?”

Scott nods. “I don't want Kira to keep worrying. I know that she doesn't need to. The fox isn't trying to hurt her. It – I think it wants to protect her. I'd ask Deaton, but I promised her that I wouldn't tell anyone else that it was there...”

“So you told me?” says Stiles. He sighs and closes his eyes. “I'll see what I can do. It might take me a few days.”

“Awesome,” says Scott. “You're the best. You know that right?”

Stiles blinks his eyes open. “I know it,” he says. “But other people have a tendency to forget.”

Scott laughs and pats him on the shoulder. “Thanks, man. I'll owe you. I need to go now. I promised to meet Kira for lunch. Wish me luck.” He disappeared down the hall, a dopey grin already spreading across his face. 

Stiles leans tiredly against his locker and realises that there was a reason that he hasn't missed the whole romancing-Allison stage in Scott's life. He opens his locker and put his math textbook on top of all his others. He wonders if the romancing-Kira stage is going to be any better.

He has his doubts.

…

Stiles gets home that afternoon and finds his dad's cruiser still in the drive. His dad is in the kitchen eating a hurried dinner. Stiles feels faintly pleased when he notices that it's one of the healthy frozen meals he'd bought the week before. It's a small victory. But he's willing to take it. 

“Just heading out?” he asks, dropping his keys on the counter. The key to the storage room clings on the surface and Stiles feels the absurd urge to grab them back up again. He stops himself, but crosses his arms and tucks his hands under his armpits so his dad can't see that they're suddenly shaking. He'd asked his father about that key two days ago... His stomach heaves.

“Yeah, I'm heading out in ten,” says the Sheriff. “Sorry, son.”

Stiles shakes his head quickly. “No, no, Dad. That's all right. I can understand. With everything that's going on --”

The Sheriff nods. “It's a mess,” he agrees. “We're still cleaning up from the black out. You won't believe the amount of damage trick-or-treaters can do when they are covered by a blanket of darkness.”

Stiles give a hollow laugh. “I think I have a fairly good idea,” he says. “I was a trick-or-treater not so long ago.”

His dad sighs. “God. Those were the days. You were a terror.” He looks up and gives Stiles a warm, concerned look. “You are doing all right? I know we haven't really had a chance to talk since the sub-station and --”

“I'm doing fine, Dad,” says Stiles. “Don't worry about me. You have enough to worry about at work. With Mr McCall breathing down your neck all the time...”

His dad sighs and stands up, picking up his hat. “Don't worry too much about that, Stiles. Promise me. McCall isn't your problem.”

Stiles nods and give his dad a reassuring grin. It's weak, but it comes. “I won't, Dad,” he says. “But I can't stop myself from caring.”

His dad nods and then abruptly leans in to give him a quick hug. “You're a good kid, Stiles,” he says. “I'll see you in the morning.”

Stiles watches him leave. Then he slowly picks his keys up from the table. His hands are still shaking. 

…

Stiles wakes up at two in the morning. His room is dark and his mouth tastes like sour milk. He sits up and presses his knuckles to his forehead. His brain seems to be throbbing in time with his heart. He can feel every muscle running from his shoulder-blade of his neck, and all of them are tense and knotted. He curls over his legs and feels water leak from the corners of his eyes at the pain. 

“God,” he gasps.

Then he wakes up. 

…

Stiles doesn't go back to sleep again. He figures he's had six hours in the last four days. It's going to have to be enough. He's lost track of the number of times he's woken up thinking he was already awake. It's hitting somewhere in the high hundreds – he does know that. 

He wonders what Scott would say if he told him that he was freaking out over the fact that he can no longer tell what's real and what's a dream. Scott would probably just send him a terribly earnest look and tell him that he _knew_ that Stiles was awake. He just _knew_.

Stiles goes down to the kitchen and makes himself toast. He scrapes butter over the dry surface and sits in front of the flickering television while he chews mechanically. The toast tastes like cardboard. Stiles has the television on silent, because late night info-mercials don't deserve anything better. His headache has faded, but he can still feel it at the back of his neck – threatening to explode into agony. He doesn't take a pain-killer. He's already groggy enough. He can't risk the effect that they would have on his system. 

Eventually he goes upstairs and gets his laptop. He brings it back down to the lounge room, and flicks it open. He doesn't want to be in his bedroom for any length of time. It feels like the room has betrayed him.

He starts by typing 'glowing fox' into google. He doesn't find anything until he narrows his search parameters by adding 'Japanese.' 

The night takes a very long time to pass.

…

Stiles catches the bus the next morning. He's not known for his clever life choices, but even he knows that it's a bad idea to drive when your hands are shaking so hard that you can't even lock the front door without trying fifteen times.

Scott is already at school when he arrives, standing near the lockers. 

“Dude, did you catch the bus?”

Stiles shrugs and opens his locker. “Yeah. Does it matter?”

“No, not really. But I have to tell you... You smell rank. There are way too many teenage boys on that bus.”

The laugh is forced from Stiles. He feels like the sound fights its way through his throat. He is really too tired to find it very funny. But he's amused in a distant, detached way. 

“I have some stuff for you,” he says. He reaches into his bag and grabs the research he'd done the night before. “I think I've figured out what's going on with Kira.”

Scott stands up straight, paying close attention. “Really?” he asks. “You've already found stuff. That was fast.”

Stiles waves a dismissive hand. “I had some time last night. Now, I think that Kira's actually this,” he points at a picture he'd printed from google. It has a girl from an anime with a foxes ears and tails. “Of course, she doesn't _really_ look like this,” says Stiles. “But this was the closest thing I could find to what you described. I think that Kira's a kitsune.”

“A kistuna?”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “A kitsune,” he says. “A magical fox. They come from Japan. They're known for being shapeshifters – apparently they can learn how to shift into their fox form. Everything I found also said that some of them – they have a power over electricity, which would tally perfectly with everything we saw at the sub-station. A few sources also mentioned some ability to see the future.”

“But none of it said that they were evil?” Scott frowns down at the wad of paper that Stiles brandishes under his nose. 

“No,” says Stiles. He runs a hand through his hair. “I think they're more like werewolves. They can be good and bad... It depends on who they are. But they're not bitten like werewolves. The kitsune's abilities are exclusively passed on genetically. You should probably get Kira to talk to her mum and dad.”

Scott looks up at Stiles and gives him a wide grin. “Thanks,” he says, genuinely. “This will make a huge difference to her. I know it will. Do you mind if I –?” He waves the wad of paper in the air, asking if he could take it. 

Stiles nods. “Go on,” he says. “Go find her.”

Scott disappears into the distance. As soon as he's gone, Stiles slumps against his locker. “God.”

…

“What's up with you?”

Lydia's voice is sharp and it attacks Stile's incipient headache like a knife. He winces and presses his knuckles hard to his temple. “Do you have to be so loud?” he complains. 

Lydia sits opposite him at the lunch table, her eyebrows raised. “Loud?” she says. “I'm not being loud.”

Stiles leans over and rests his forehead on his hands. “Yes you are,” he says. “And to answer your question, I have a headache. It's nothing important.”

Lydia looks like she's about to argue, but she hesitates and her next words are entirely unexpected. “You know... You really don't look very good, Stiles. Maybe you should think about going home?”

Stiles winces and leans over. His head feel like it's about to burst from the inside; fires seems to be racing through his veins, running up the left side of his neck and centring on his temple. He squeezes his eyes tight and breaths through his mouth. His throat is dry and the air seems to burn as it enters his lungs. 

“I think I might,” he says. “Tell Scott where I am if he asks?” He looks up and meets Lydia's concerned gaze. He tries to give her a smile, but it comes out looking more like a grimace. 

“I'll tell Scott,” she promises. “Do you need help getting home?”

Stiles shakes his head. “I should be all right,” he says. “Enjoy your lunch.” He leaves, pulling his school bag up over his right shoulder. His seat is almost immediately taken by Aiden. “Lydia... please...” is all Stiles hears before he's out of range.

Stiles stumbles to the front office and signs out. It's only when he reaches the parking lot that he remembers that he hadn't driven his car that morning. He sits down on the stairs and presses his forehead to his knees. He fumbles with his phone, pulling it from his pocket. 

His vision is blurred, but he can still read when he selects _Derek_ and presses call. He doesn't know why he does it, but he's woken up over a hundred and one times now, and he's half convinced that soon he'll wake up again. 

…

Stiles wakes up.

For a long moment he's confused. He could have sworn that he hadn't gone to sleep on the sofa the night before. He turns his head to the side and realises that it's dark outside.

“What?” he croaks. He tries to sit up, but his arms are too weak to hold him up. Instead he lies there, feeling limp and vulnerable. 

There's a rustle on the other side of the room, and a dark shape moves into Stiles' range of vision. “You're awake then.”

Stiles closes his eyes and hopes he will wake up again. “So...” he says. “Not a dream. Or... maybe still dreaming?”

There's the sound of Derek settling on the seat opposite. “Not a dream,” he confirms, in a dry voice. “Why did you call me, Stiles?”

Stiles looks up and finds Derek looking at him with a solemn, piercing gaze. He licks his lips, and looks away. He doesn't have an answer. Or, at least... he doesn't have an answer that makes sense outside his head. 

He called Derek because he was hurting and tired and he wasn't thinking straight. He called him because he does trust him, even if he pretends not to. He called Derek because Derek is all straight lines in Stiles' head – he's easy to understand. He has a code for the way he lives his life, and he follows it with a ruthless dedication that has left several bodies dead behind him, but he never wavers. He's a wolf, and pack comes before anything, and Stiles doesn't know why... but he still feels like he's a part of Derek's pack. He feels like Derek is his alpha, and he trusts Derek as an alpha in a way that he doesn't think he will ever trust Scott. 

Stiles doesn't say any of this. He doesn't know how. Instead, he forces his arms to obey him, and props himself up against the arm of the lounge. “Sorry,” he says, quietly. “I didn't mean to trouble you.”

Derek tilts his head to one side. It's as though he thinks he can read Stiles' mind, if only he looks hard enough. Eventually he sits back and looks away. “I called your father.”

“What?”

Derek looks back at him. “You've been asleep eight hours,” he says. “Your father needed to know where you were. He was here a few hours ago. Checking to see that you were all right. He had to head back to work for a few hours but he said he'd be back sometime around now.”

Stiles rubs his eyes and tries to process everything Derek is saying. “I've been asleep all afternoon?” he says, eventually. “But that's not possible.”

Derek raises his eyebrows.

Stiles shakes his head. “But I can't afford to be asleep that long.” 

“As far as your father and I could tell,” says Derek, “you haven't actually slept for nearly a week. Your father found your room. He told me that he's never seen anything so disturbing. What language were you using to write on the walls?”

Stiles feels his heart pound in his chest, skipping a beat. “What writing?”

Derek looks at him with a frown. “You don't know?”

Stiles shakes his head. “I've been having... nightmares,” he begins. “Sometimes things happened.”

“What sort of things?”

Stiles shrugs. “Mostly I...” he pauses, leaning back against the couch. “Mostly I wake up.”

Derek frowned and shifted in his seat. “Does that mean what I think it means?”

“I think that depends on what you think it means.”

“Stiles, do you think you're asleep right now?”

Stiles looks up at Derek and blinks. “Aren't I?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Derek**

When Stiles calls it's two o'clock on Thursday afternoon and Derek almost doesn't picked up. He's clearing the last of the mess from the rave, wondering what to do about the paint on the walls. He doesn't have the energy to deal with whatever drama Stiles wants to create. He just steps back, ignores the phone, and regards the walls with a scowl.

Ethan and Aiden really should be the ones cleaning up, but Derek can't just call them an tell them to come down. Much as he wants to demand that they come and clean their own fucking mess. He is an omega, and an omega didn't tell other omegas what to do. Not when those other omegas have an alpha looking out for them. Scott may not have officially tied them to his pack yet, but he's laid his claim. 

Scott has also laid a claim on Stiles, and Derek's instincts, which had been telling him not to mess with Scott or his pack since coming back to town, are setting off alarms in his head at the sight of Stiles' name on his phone. He can feel Scott's presence, like a knife poised at the back of his neck. It's making Derek's skin prickle, like the feeling of electricity in the air before the storm breaks.

He only picks up his phone because Stiles doesn't hang up after two or three rings. He clings on, letting the call ring on, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen... until Derek regrets pushing his messaging service out to twenty. 

Derek picks up the phone and snaps, “Stiles?” 

“M'head hurts.”

“Stiles?”

“I can't see. Can't read. Who am I talking to?” There is a sound as Stiles fumbles with his phone. “Why's there a picture of Derek on my my phone? Derek? Why are you on my phone?”

Derek stands in the centre of his loft and feels something like worry. “Stiles? Are you all right? Where are you?”

“M'at school,” Stiles says. “My head hurts. Come pick me up?”

Derek frowns. Then, ever an idiot, he goes to get him. He'd wonders, the entire way, why he isn't just calling Scott and telling him to deal with it. But... it's his damned instincts again. Stiles isn't Scott's pack, but he was once a part of Derek's – despite both their protestations to the contrary. Scott has laid a claim, but he hasn't committed. Derek doesn't know why – he would have thought that Stiles would be the first person that Scott would bring into his pack. But, for some reason he hasn't made Stiles pack, and that meant that Derek can go and get him from school, where he sits on the stairs near the car park – eye's glassy and feverish, phone in one hand, and backpack in the other.

“I need to tell you something,” Stiles says, stumbling to his feet as soon as Derek arrives. “But not here. At the loft?”

Derek nods and ushers Stiles into the car. He doesn't say anything during the journey, and when they arrive, he'd leads the way up the stairs. It is only when they are standing in the loft and Stiles has dropped his backpack and his phone, that Derek realises that Stiles' exhaustion is more than just a scent made stronger by proximity... underneath the overlay of strange scents from the bus, it's overpowering.

“M'Sorry,” Stiles says. “I haven't slept in four days.” Then he curls up on Derek's lounge and goes to sleep, leaving Derek standing at the centre of the loft, wondering what the hell happened. He tries to wake Stiles – he even throws water over him at one point – but the boy doesn't move a muscle. 

Derek waits an hour. Two. Stiles is still asleep. In the end he calls Deaton.

“There's no bitter scent in the air? He doesn't seem troubled or pale? It sounds like he's just asleep, Derek. Call me if anything changes.” Deaton hangs up, and Derek stares down at the phone wondering why he even called the vet in first place. 

He calls the Sheriff next. “This is Derek Hale. Stiles, uh – he's fallen asleep on my lounge. I've called Deaton... he says its a natural sleep, but it's been two hours and he doesn't look like he's waking up.”

“Derek?”

“Yes.” 

“I'll be there in ten minutes.”

….

At nine that night, Stiles wakes up. Derek does a lot of thinking in the interim. 

Derek hadn't given Stiles a second thought when he left Beacon Hills. While he waits for him to wake, he watches the boy, sprawled on his lounge, looking tired and wan, and he wonders if that had been yet another of his mistakes. 

He'd thought that Stiles was the normal one – the one least like to cause a problem that he would need to fix. So he'd discounted him. It looked like most of his friends had discounted him as well. 

Stiles has been asleep on his lounge for eight hours. He's only had two texts in that time – one of them was Scott apologising, saying he couldn't meet up, and one of them had been Lydia, asking if he was all right. 

When Stiles wakes up, Derek sits opposite him and watches him carefully. He leans forward in his seat and looks at Stiles, his brow furrowed. “Stiles, do you think you're asleep right now?”

Stiles looks up at him and blinks tiredly. He doesn't look worried, or concerned, he just looks exhausted. “Aren't I?”

Derek sits back and feels something in his chest fall. He runs a hand over his face. How did it get to this? Surely the boy had friends he could turn to? People he could tell? 

Derek closes his eyes. He runs a hand over his face and tries not to rub at the the small patch of skin behind his left ear. 

“Would you believe me if I told you that you were awake?”

Stiles slowly sits up properly, letting his legs slide of the lounge and onto the floor. He turns his head away. “I've heard that one before,” he admits. “It's not really convincing any more.”

Derek sits back. He doesn't know what to say. 

…

Stiles' father comes to pick him up half an hour later. He's still wearing his uniform, and he smells like sweat and worry and work. Derek stands back and watches him warily as he enters the room. He has a furrow between his eyes that speaks of many things. Most of which are bad. 

“Son,” he says, going to stand by the couch. 

Stiles looks up at him, and his eyes are wide. He looks like he's desperately trying not to break. His hands are shaking and he smells anxious. He's slept for half a day, but he looks like he needs to roll over and go back to sleep for a week more. The bags under his eyes are dark, and his eyes are red around the edges.

“Dad.”

The Sheriff sits down on the lounge and looks at his son. His expression is filled with concern and love in equal measure. “Why didn't you tell me, Stiles?”

Derek goes to the kitchen and looks down at the bench. He pulls out a pan and starts to make dinner. He can't help overhearing the conversation, but he can at least give Stiles the courtesy of pretending that he's not listening in. He takes a few pieces of lamb from the fridge and starts the pan on a high heat. He throws some lettuce in a bowl with a few tomatoes. None of it is enough to distract him from the conversation happening on the lounge.

“I didn't want you to know,” says Stiles. “You have enough to worry about. You shouldn't have to worry about me as well. It's nothing that serious.” His heart hitches, and Derek glances at him. Stiles doesn't notice. “I'm just not sleeping all that well. You know that I've been having nightmares.”

“I didn't know that you were being pushed to the point of collapsing,” says his father. “I didn't know that it was this bad.”

Stiles shrugs. “It's only been the last few days, really. Since Halloween.” He looks down his hands and curls his fingers in to inspect his nails. It's as though he is looking for something there that only he can see. Derek's eyes narrow. Stiles looks back up at his dad, and Derek quickly looks back down at the pan. It's hot enough for the lamb. He puts in enough for three. 

The Sheriff sighs and leans forward. He pulls Stiles into a hug. “You need to tell me these things,” he says. “You can't continue keeping things from me just because you think they'll worry me. I'd rather know, Stiles.”

Stiles nods against his father's chest and lets out a long gusty breath. It hitches somewhere in the middle and he reaches up to rub at his eyes. “Yeah, Dad. I know.”

“Still,” says the Sheriff sitting back. “None of this explains you room. It's a mess, Stiles.”

Stiles wraps his arm around his torso and tucks his hands under his armpits. He looks at his father, and his expression is almost scared. “I'm – I think...” 

“What is it, Stiles? You can tell me.”

“I think that I've been... you know, doing things in my sleep? Derek said that you found writing on my walls. I don't remember doing any of that.”

The Sheriff runs a hand through his hair. He looks at his son, takes in his worry and fear, then leans over and pulled him into a second tight embrace. “Oh, Stiles... We'll figure it out. I've taken some photos. Maybe Chris will know something? Or Deaton?” The Sheriff sits back. 

Stiles nods and looks down. “Maybe,” he says. “But, I just --” He looks up at his dad and gives him an exhausted, wry look. “I'm not sure I want to know.”

His dad nods. “I know Stiles.”

Derek puts out three plates. “Dinner?” he asks. “I've cooked enough.”

The Sheriff and Stiles both look at him like he's speaking a foreign language. Derek rubs the back of his neck, feeling absurdly self-conscious. 

The Sheriff is the first to speak. “Thank you, Derek. We'd love to stay.”

…

Derek watches Stiles push his lamb around the plate and toy with his salad. His fork makes a scraping noise on the plate and Derek winces. 

“Sorry,” says Stiles. He pushes the plate away. “Not hungry,” he explains. “Can I have a glass of water?”

Derek nods and Stiles hops up to get it. He opens the cupboard over the sink and grabs one of the two glasses that weren't broken during the rave. He fills it at the tap, his eyes low, and drinks it there, keeping his back to the kitchen table. 

The Sheriff shares a worried look with Derek, before looking down at his salad. He's only eaten about half. “Thank you, Derek,” he says, pushing his plate away as well. “We should probably be heading out. The meal was lovely.”

Derek nods and stands. Stiles grabs his bag and jacket and leaves the loft as quickly as he can. “I'll meet you in the car, Dad,” he says as he heads out. “Th – uh, thanks, Derek. I'll be seeing you.”

The Sheriff follows him, but he pauses by the door and looks back at Derek. “Thank you, Derek. Really. I don't know why Stiles came to you, but if he does again --”

Derek nods. “I'll call.”

The Sheriff gives him a stiff nod. “I'll appreciate it. Stiles, he doesn't – He's stopped telling me about things like this. He knows that I'm under pressure at work, and he doesn't want to worry me. But he – I'd much rather know.”

“Can you --” Derek pauses. He runs a hand over the back of his neck, rubbing his forefinger against the number five behind his ear. “I'd like to know what you find out about the writing on Stiles' walls. If you don't mind? I know – That is, I may not have the best track record, but I genuinely do care about Stiles. I mean, he was a part of my pack --”

The Sheriff stiffens, and he sends Derek a searching look. “He never told me that.”

“It's possible he didn't know?” says Derek. “I wasn't... very good at communicating with the people around me.”

The Sheriff sighs and he gives Derek a wry grin. “You can't be much worse than my son. I'll let you know what I find out.”

Derek closes the door behind the Sheriff and stares at the empty flat. He feels strangely hollow. He leans back against the door and closes his eyes. He doesn't miss being an alpha. He really doesn't. He doesn't miss the responsibility, the stress of looking after his pack, of worrying about them all the time. He definitely doesn't miss the horror he'd felt every time he'd failed them. 

But... there's some small part of him that, right now, wishes that Stiles was still his to look after. 

His phone goes off, but he ignores it for the moment. He stands up and takes a deep breath. He will really need to talk to Scott soon. Things can't go on like this. Scott needs to figure out what responsibilities he's willing to take on and which ones he doesn't have the capacity to look after. He can't keep claiming Stiles as his without choosing, at some point to turn that claim into an official pack bond. 

He rolls his shoulders, trying to relieve some tension, and takes the plates from the kitchen table to the sink. As he passes the kitchen bench on the return journey he picks up the phone. He glances down at the screen, then he pauses, his brow furrowing. 

The screen just reads:

'Sorry. I won't call again.'


	3. Chapter 3

**Stiles**

Stiles looks up to find his dad standing in the doorway to his room. Dr Deaton is standing behind him, looking as polite and calm as ever. Stiles is sitting on his bed, staring at the walls. His dad had been right. It is scary. 

The walls are covered in thin scribbles. They don't look like any language that Stiles knows. They are too sharp and angular – almost pictographic. It looks like Stiles has been writing on them in a cross between the Cyrillic alphabet and Egyptian hieroglyphs.

“Stiles?” says his dad, knocking on the door frame. “Dr Deaton is here. Can we come in?”

Stiles nods and stands up. He's only been at home for an hour, and his father had shoved him into the shower as soon as they arrived. He's had less than ten minutes to take in the wreck of his room. His bookshelf and desk are a mess. It looks like he destroyed any filing system he'd ever had when moving his desk, and quite possibly broken his monitor. All of his books are on the floor, and his bookshelf is on its side. 

“Dr Deaton,” he says uneasily. He stands awkwardly at the centre of his room, and watches Dr Deaton take in the walls. He wonders what he sees. Stiles won't admit it, but a part of him is terrified that Deaton will turn around and say that Stiles is possessed. That he's been taken over by something – like that evil spirit he'd mentioned on Halloween, or an actual demon, or something even worse. Stiles can feel his heart clenching in his chest. He looks at the keys on his bedside table and fights the urge to pick them up. 

“Stiles,” says Dr Deaton, looking around the room. “Your father asked me to come. He told me that he was concerned.”

Stiles nods. He steps back and waits while Dr Deaton absorbs the thin dark lines that cover the walls. 

“Can you read this, Stiles?” asks Dr Deaton, glancing at Stiles curiously. “Does it mean something to you?”

Stiles shakes his head. His father steps forward and gazes in the same direction as Deaton. “Can you read it?” 

Dr Deaton shakes his head and steps back. “No. I'm sorry. This doesn't mean anything to me.” He looks at Stiles and then at his father and gives a small, placating smile. “But, don't be too concerned. I don't think this is anything more than another symptom of the Nemeton's influence. The others have been experiencing similar things. Allison came to me because she's seeing hallucinations every time she lifts a weapon, and Scott is – well, he says his shadow is chasing him; that he can't control his shifting. To be honest, if all Stiles is doing is writing on his walls in his sleep, I would say that he is getting off lightly.”

Stiles shivers and he looks down at his bed. His gaze doesn't travel to the keyring. 

“He's been having nightmares as well. Having difficulty sleeping,” says his father. “You're saying that's nothing to worry about?”

“I'm saying that it isn't unexpected,” says Dr Deaton. “It is certainly worrying, but not... unduly so. Let me know if anything changes, but I would say that Stiles is fine returning to school tomorrow.”

“You're sure?” Stiles' father sounds disbelieving.

“Dad...” Stiles waves a hand. “If Dr Deaton says it's fine --”

“Stiles, none of this is fine,” says his father. “Not one bit of it. Maybe there's nothing we can do right now; maybe the others are suffering similar problems. But, Deaton – if you know something and you're not telling me --”

“I can assure you --”

“Stiles is my son, and he's hurting because of me. If you know something, you tell me.” The Sheriff glares at Deaton, his hand near his hip, hovering over the gun he isn't carrying. “I don't want to find out later that you were holding out on me.”

“Dad,” says Stiles. “Dr Deaton doesn't know anything.” He turns to Dr Deaton and gives an uncomfortable smile. “Sorry about him, he's --”

“He cares about you, Stiles,” says Dr Deaton. He looks up at the Sheriff and his eyes are solemn. “I understand. You have to believe me Sheriff when I tell you that Stiles' symptoms, while serious, are not unexpected.”

“All right,” says his father, “but if you find out anything --”

“You will be the first to know.” 

Stiles stays in his room while his dad shows Dr Deaton out. He sits back down on his bed and picks up his keys from the bedside table. He turns them about in his hands. Then he places them back on the table and puts his face in his hands. 

“You right, son?”

Stiles looks up. His father is standing at the door, looking concerned. Stiles nods and sits back. “Yeah, Dad. I think I'm just going to get some sleep.” He pats one of his pillows and gives a weak smile. “I probably need some.”

His dad gives him a searching look. “You know where I am if you need me.”

“Yeah, Dad.” His dad turns to leave and Stiles bites his lip before calling out. “Dad?” His father turns around. “Thank you?”

His father nods and runs a hand over his face. He looks as tired as Stiles feels. “Go to sleep, Stiles.”

...

Hours later, Stiles lies in bed, half asleep. He has his bedside light on – he feels like a kid, but it's definitely better than lying in the dark. The light makes shadows dance on the walls. He's lying on his side. One hand is tucked under his pillow, and the other is lying just in front of his face. He blinks, squeezing his eyes shut, and tries not to wonder if he's really awake. 

He wonders instead, what it means if Derek really did pick him up, in the real world, and let him sleep on his lounge. He wonders if it means that Derek might be willing to be more than a broody enigma in the distance. 

Stiles shifts, kicking his left leg over his right and tangling the duvet. 

He blinks and reaches down to straighten it out again. He looks up and...

...he pauses, his breath going shallow and fast. _The door is open, and they're coming, you can see them, can't you see them, in the dark, in the shadows, hiding beneath the bed, crawling from the woods, creeping, slithering, weeping and killing, they are coming, you can see them, you can see them, why can't you see them when you're awake, their eyes glow, you can see them, you can see them, you can see them, you're the ONLY one who can see them... why can't you see them when you're awake... please, please, please, close the door, please close the door, please close the door, please... they are coming, you can see them, just don't wake up, wake up, wake up, wake up..._

Stiles slowly sits up and looks around. His eyes run over the words. They are a mad, incoherent jumble. They are jagged, frightened, terrified. Stiles takes a deep breath. He bites his lip; he tries to breath again. The breath catches in his throat and he coughs, harsh and ragged, tears leaking from his eyes as he looks around the room. 

“No, no, no,” he whispers. “No. Why are you doing this? Why?”

He squeezes his eyes shut. He opens them again...

He wakes up screaming.


	4. Chapter 4

**Derek**

The next morning Derek calls the Sheriff's office. He talks to the deputy on the desk. She sounds suspicious, but she doesn't fight it when he says that he has something important he needs to tell the Sheriff. She just tells him to wait, and puts through the call. 

“Who's Agent McCall?” is the first question that Derek asks when the Sheriff finally picks up the phones. 

“Where did you hear that name?” asks the Sheriff. He sounds more tired than defensive. Derek can hear the exhaustion in his voice. “Did Stiles tell you something?”

“Stiles didn't tell me anything,” says Derek. “I heard it just now. There was... a lot of shouting in the background when the phone was picked up. I couldn't help overhearing a few things.”

He doesn't think the Sheriff is going to answer, but after a tense moment passes he sighs and Derek can hear him sitting back in his seat. “Agent McCall is Scott's dad. He's also a total prick.”

Derek gives a short bark of laughter. “That was the impression I got,” he says. “It sounded like he was giving you a hard time?”

There is a long pause. Then the Sheriff speaks again, and Derek can hear exhaustion in his voice, “McCall is trying to get me fired. He doesn't like me, and he thinks he has grounds for dismissal. He's pursuing it with everything he's got.” The Sheriff sighs. “To be fair, he has a lot. The number of cases this station hasn't closed in the last year are reaching the double digits. That's more than any other station in the state.”

Derek is silent for a long moment, running his forefinger over the number behind his ear. “I'm sorry,” he says eventually. “If there's anything...”

“I'll let you know,” says the Sheriff. He pauses and then adds. “Thank you, Hale. I know we don't have the best track record.”

Derek gives a huff of laughter. “No. I wouldn't say that we do.”

“Maybe that can change,” says the Sheriff.

“Maybe it can,” agrees Derek. 

“Now,” says Sheriff. “What can I do for you?”

“I was wondering --” Derek pauses and rubs a hand over the back of his neck. “Is Stiles all right? Yesterday, he seemed so...”

“He seemed all right this morning,” says the Sheriff. “But last night... He woke screaming again. He wouldn't tell me why. Just kept saying that he was all right; he just needed to wake up.”

Derek's hand freezes. “What were his exact words?”

“I don't know – He wasn't very coherent? It was something like, 'It'll be okay. Don't worry. I'll fix it when I next wake up'? I can't tell you for sure. Why?”

Derek looks down at his jeans and then he closes his eyes. He takes a breath and answers, “No reason. He just woke up saying something similar yesterday. He went to school today?”

“Yeah,” says the Sheriff. “I couldn't talk him out of it. He insisted.”

…

At lunch time, Derek gets his car keys from his kitchen table and goes down to his car. He hops in and turns on the radio, trying to drown out the rational voices in his head that are saying this is a stupid idea, stop, reconsider, go back. A terrible song comes on and he immediately regrets choosing to listen to the radio, but his annoyance gets him all the way to the school gates, so maybe the song was exactly what he needed. 

He parks and stands by the car, waiting for the bell to ring. As soon as it does, he pulls out his phone and texts Stiles. 'I'm in the car park. Come meet me. I'll have you back before the end of lunch.'

He then leans back against his hood and pretends that he can't see the students staring at him as they pass. One girl – dark hair, red lips, and a slight overbite – watches him for a long time before deciding to walk away. Derek waits and rolls his eyes when the next person to stop is a small freshman with large teeth. He pauses on the stairs near him, smelling exclusively of stale sweat and lust. He disappears quickly at the sight of Stiles, barrelling toward them.

“What are you doing here?” asks Stiles, his voice a hiss. “You can't possibly want to talk to me.”

Derek looks up from his phone and gives Stiles a carefully blank look. “Can't I?” he asks, amicably. “That's news to me.” He tucks his phone into his back pocket and opens the passenger side door. “Get in the car. I don't want to have this conversation here.”

Stiles looks at him suspiciously, and refuses to budge. 

“Do you want to risk Scott overhearing?”

Stiles scowls and clambers in, tugging the door shut behind him. Derek walks around to the driver's side. He slides in and pulls his door shut. 

“So, what do you want?” asks Stiles, his backpack on his lap. He sounds defensive and annoyed. 

Derek doesn't answer. He just turns on the ignition and pulls out of the parking lot. He exits the gate and turns away from the town and into the woods. He drives several miles before pulling over beside the road and turning off the engine. Everything falls silent for a minute.

Then, “So, was there are reason for this? Or do you just get your kicks from confusing the hell out of me?”

Derek sighs and turns to Stiles. He studies him carefully, seeing the bags under his red rimmed eyes. Stiles twitches while he watches him. His heartbeat picks up and his fingers curl against his thighs. 

“What?”

“Do you still think you're asleep?” asks Derek. 

Stiles' eyes widen and he sits back in his seat. He hugs his bag to his chest with his left arm and looks away. A moment later he glances back. “Why do you ask?”

“I just wanted to know,” says Derek. “Do you still think you're asleep?”

Stiles winces and looks down. He takes a deep breath. “Do you know how many times I've woken up in the past twenty four hours?” 

Derek watches Stiles, his expression impassive. “Why don't you tell me?”

“I've woken up over five times. Each time I thought I was really awake. Really, truly awake. I went to school. I spoke to Scott. I went to class and studied. I feel like I've been awake for five days, but I know it's not true _because I keep waking up_.”

Derek doesn't say anything, but his left hand twitches, wanting to reach in Stiles' direction. 

“Of course I still think I'm asleep,” says Stiles. “I can't assume that I'm ever awake. Not when I'm proven wrong every single time.” He sounds exhausted. Broken. 

“Your father doesn't know,” says Derek. 

“You can't tell him,” says Stiles quickly. “He's worried enough as it is. I mean, yesterday – If yesterday did happen... I mean, that was bad enough. It was worse than bad. I can't go landing this on him as well.”

“I think you should tell him.”

“I can't. You don't understand – he's under fire at work. Rafa McCall – Scott's dad – he's out for his blood. My dad doesn't need to deal with me cracking up as well. I already wake him up most nights he's home.”

Derek sighs and sinks lower in his seat. He runs his hands over his thighs and wonders what to say. “You need to talk to someone,” he says. “Maybe Deaton –?”

“Deaton already knows,” says Stiles. “He can't offer any help. He said that it's just what I can expect – after being sacrificed to the Nemeton –” Stiles falls silent and looks down at his back pack, playing with the zipper. “Can I go back now? It's just... if this is real, I can't really afford to miss any more classes.”

Derek drives him back to the school. As Stiles opens the door he reached out and catches his sleeve. “Stiles? You know – if you need someone to talk to --”

“What? I can talk to you?”

“Well – yes.” Derek searched Stiles face, but he sees nothing but dismissal. He sighs and sits back letting go of his shirt. “Just – if you need anything. I'll be around.”

Stiles rolls his eyes and gets out of the car. He waves at Derek over his shoulder as he clambers up the stairs to school. The bell rings as he enters the building.

…

Derek spends the rest of the day killing time, waiting for the next thing to happen. He goes for a run, circling the town, and avoiding the house in the woods. He goes back to the loft and makes himself dinner. He eats it in silence, staring out at Beacon Hills. He wonders, again, why he'd actually come back. 

…

That night, Scott calls him. It's nearly twelve o'clock; dark and windy outside. Derek picks up, not sure what to expect.

“McCall,” he says, warily.

“Ineedyourhelp... Onihere... Dadhurt,' says Scott; no punctuation, just panting breaths.

Derek closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. “I'll be there in ten minutes.” He hangs up the call and stands, looking out over Beacon Hills for a moment longer. Then he grabs his jacket and runs.

The McCall's home is dark. There are no lights on inside, and the front door hangs open, swinging on its hinges. Derek approaches the house quietly. He avoids the front door and goes down the side of the house, where the kitchen window looks out over the neighbour's property. 

There is no sound loud enough to be heard over the blowing wind. 

Derek discovers why, when he peers in through the glass. Everyone in the room is on the floor – lying on one side, their faces tilted toward the ground, their marked necks on display. Scott is lying near the front door. Kira is next to him. They are holding hands, their fingers twisted together, and Derek grimaces at the sight. Ethan and Aiden are also there, lying beside one another in front of the kitchen bench.

Derek eases the kitchen window up and crawls over the window sill. He jumps out and over the kitchen sink, and lands in a silent crouch on the kitchen's laminate flooring. He pauses, listening carefully. Down the long corridor beside the stairs he can hear the sound of a woman, trying to stay quiet. She is breathing in frantic, quick breaths, a soft sob hidden within each exhale. 

Derek moves around the kitchen counter and creeps toward the corridor. 

There is the soft sound of a man's groan, and Derek realises that the woman is not alone. He looks around the corner, and feels his heart sink at what he sees. 

Melissa McCall and a man are hiding in a room off the corridor. There is a line of wolfsbane on the floor. Two Oni are standing over them, driving their swords through the shimmering blue barrier. 

Derek ducks back around the corner and closes his eyes. His indecision is brief. When he acts, he acts fast. 

He moves down the corridor quickly. Two leaps and he is on the Oni's clawing at them and dragging them away from the wall. The woman looks up and gives an involuntary cry. Derek ignores her, fighting for his life. 

The Oni are strong and relentless. They don't fight like humans, and Derek finds himself on the defensive, backed toward the wall. They move swiftly; crowding against him going for the kill. Derek swipes through their chests and legs and arms, but they don't move to defend themselves, they just melt to let his claws pass and strike at him more firmly. 

Derek catches one of their blades on his forearm. He catches another on his shoulder as he ducks to avoid a blow that would have taken his head. 

He looks up as one of the curved swords follows a neat trajectory toward his chest, and then he falls back in sudden release when Scott catches the sword and uses it to throw the Oni across the room. 

“Wolfsbane,” he calls, and Ethan and Aiden crowd into the corridor. Kira follows close behind. A moment later a smoke bomb goes off, showering the kitchen in a cloud of black dust. The Oni writhe among the smoke, twisting and contorting, then they disperse, drifting into the air. 

“Mom,” calls Scott. “Are you all right?” He pushes past Derek and makes his way to the small room off the corridor. “Dad?”

“Scott, call and ambulance,” says Melissa. “Fast.”

Scott nods and fumbles for his phone. 

Derek stands up, the tendons in his back re-knitting, and the wound in his arm no longer dripping on the floor. 

Scott finishes the call, looking tense and worried, but he still finds time to reach out to Kira, grasp her hand and say, “See, I told you not to worry.”

Derek grinds his teeth and pushes off the wall. “Call me if they come back,” he says to Scott with a scowl. 

Scott nods distractedly, hovering half way between the hurt man – presumably his father – on the floor, and the girl standing in the corridor. Derek leaves the house and makes his way back through the darkness to his apartment. Once he's there he sheds his shirt and jeans, falling on the bed. He closes his eyes and falls asleep with streaks of blood still decorating his arm and back.


	5. Stiles

**Stiles**

A day, maybe more, maybe less, Stiles finally visits Melissa McCall. 

“I don't feel well. I'm experiencing things – Dreaming things –”

Melissa nods, tells him it's sleep deprivation, and gives him a sedative before he can say no.

Stiles topples over onto the bed and wants to tell her that sleeping tablets just make it worse. They make the hazy run of dreams start to whirl past, picking up their pace until they're dancing under his eyelids; a never-ending procession of panic and pain, sped up to double time. Stiles wants to protest, but before he can say a word, he falls asleep, dragged down into a dream.

…

The dreams cycle, faster and faster.

…

Darkness.

Panic.

Fear.

Heart pounding in his ears, clammy shaking hands, frightened darting eyes.

There's something out there. Something in the dark.

Look around. Left, right. Quick. 

Nothing. Nothing but...

Darkness.

…

He wakes up, heart pounding in horror.

…

He wakes up, his muscles locked in fear.

…

He wakes up.

…   
He wakes.

…

He wakes.

…

He wakes.

…

He wakes...

...and then – suddenly – there's a pause. Everything stutters to a halt and Stiles is left, gasping in the woods. He can see the Hale house in the distance. It's painted green and red, and there's the sound of laughter floating through the air. Stiles stumbles closer; a twig cracks beneath his feet...

...

He wakes. 

“Stiles?” asks Jackson, leaning over him with a scowl. “What do you think you're doing?”

Stiles looks up at Jackson and opens his mouth. He closes it again without saying anything. 

Jackson raises an eyebrow expectantly. 

Stiles looks around. He's standing in the centre of the lacrosse field. The rest of the team are arrayed around him; all of them are watching him with varying degrees of bewilderment. Scott is standing near the back, looking sheepish. Stiles swallows. 

“Sorry... I'm --”

“You're going to the bench,” says Jackson. “That's where you're going.”

“Right. Yes,” Stiles give a weak grin. “That's where I'm going.” He starts walking. 

Scott ducks close to him as he passes, bending close to speak so that no one else can hear. “Are you all right?”

“Fine – I'm fine,” says Stiles. “Get back to practice.”

Scott give him a disbelieving look, but he goes back to practice anyway. Stiles sits on the bench and takes a deep drink from his water bottle. He runs a hand over his eyes and squeezes them shut. He's fairly sure that Jackson hasn't been in Beacon Hills for over a year. 

“You all right?”

Stiles looks up quickly, he fumbles his drink bottle and it falls to the grass. The lid is open and water trickles out before he can pick it up and cap it. Danny stands over him, looking concerned. 

“Yeah – I, uh... I'm fine.”

Danny frowns and sits beside Stiles on the bench. “You know... it's okay to say something if you're not all right.”

“I'm fine.” Stiles looks up at Danny and gives a grimace. “I'm just not sleeping well.”

“Nightmares?” asks Danny, looking sympathetic. 

“Yeah.”

“Me too,” says Danny. He leans over and picks up his own bottle and plays with it while he talks. “I keep dreaming about this thing. It's... Well, it's not important.” He drops his bottle on the ground and stands up. “Just – If you need someone to talk to, Stiles... I know we're not best friends, but you can talk to me. I'd understand.”

Stiles nods and gives Danny a weak smile. “Thanks, I'll remember that.”

“Good,” says Danny. “I – Just. Good.”

Stiles watches Danny leave, and then he closes his eyes, just for a second...

...

The cycle starts again. It picks up pace, and Stiles is pulled along, like a twig caught in a raging river, unable to fight the pull.

He wakes in his room.

He wakes at school.

He wakes beneath a tree, tall and twisted, reaching for the sky. He looks up and something deep within him resonates with fear. There is an ancient cruelty in its shape, a jagged, tearing quality. Stiles steps back. He can see the shadow of several bird carcasses – one, two three – impaled upon the leafless branches. Sap and blood mingle on its trunk.

Stiles stumbles back.

He wakes.  
...

He opens his eyes and looks over his shoulder. He's standing at his locker at school. It's the four hundred and thirtieth time he's woken since Melissa sent him to sleep...

Stiles leans his head against his locker and takes a deep breath. He looks down at his hand and reads _You're awake_ on his palm. A failsafe. This doesn't feel real – but nothing feels real any more. He can read; that tells him what he needs to know.

“Over here, Stiles,” says Scott. “Come on. I'll give you a lift.”

Stiles looks up from his and turns around to face Scott. The world spins around him. The floor ripples and shadows are slithering up the walls, pooling on the ceiling and dripping down to the floor as black tar. The corridor smells like rotting flowers, sickly sweet and sharp. 

Stiles looks down at his hand and remembers jagged writing twisting into words on his walls. He presses his knuckles to his lips and chokes back an angry sob. 

“Stiles?”

Stiles looks up, and the world snaps back into alignment. Stiles looks at Scott with red eyes. “Hi, sorry. Thanks, yeah. A lift. That would be good.” 

“Cool. Come on.”

Stiles follows Scott down the hall. He ignores the way the glass in the windows starts to melt, sliding down the walls. He presses his knuckles to his left temple and tells himself that it is only a matter of time before he wakes up. He squeezes his eyes closed and opens them again. 

The windows are no longer melting. He has a headache, and he doesn't know if this is real...

...but, he looks down at the palm of his hand. _You're awake._

Scott tosses Stiles a helmet. “I was thinking,” he says. “We should probably talk to Derek. Figure out what he's doing back in town. I was going to do it yesterday, but – well, after telling Kira about everything...”

 _Only yesterday?_ Stiles thinks. 

“... I couldn't leave Kira alone, not after that,” says Scott. “She's all turned around about the whole werewolves and kituna thing --”

“Kitsune,” says Stiles hollowly. He remembers that much at least.

“Yeah, that. I spent yesterday afternoon with her. Telling her what I know. That was before the thing with the Oni. It was scary, but I knew that if we were strong – She said thanks when I saw her today --”

“What thing with the Oni?” 

Stiles' question is abrupt. He can't remember being told about the thing with the Oni.

Scott squints his eyes at Stiles in concern. Then he sits on the bike. “The thing where they came and made sure Kira and I weren't possessed by evil spirits. I told you at lunch.”

Stiles winces as a sharp, jagged pain radiates through his scalp. “Um, yeah. That.”

“That,” says Scott, sounding a little suspicious. Stiles steels himself to knock away questions, sure his heart must have given a desperate uptick when he spoke, but Scott just pauses, and shrugs. “Anyway, would you be up for seeing Derek this afternoon?”

“Sure,” says Stiles, letting out a long breath. Stiles pulls the bike helmet over his head. He ignores the way the bike warps and shifts into a brutish creature with glowing red eyes and sharp teeth covered in saliva. It roars and snorts, but he just looks away and slides in behind Scott. Its muscles bunch between his legs, and it takes off at a run. Stiles closes his eyes and holds on tight.

He breaths deeply. The world twists about him and Stiles promises himself that one day soon he will wake.

…

Stiles follows Scott up to Derek's apartment. 

The stairs slide beneath his feet and run slick with blood. Stiles can smell its sharp, iron rich tang in the air. He ignores it and just keeps walking. He slips a little on the stair and lands heavily against the wall, trying to stay upright. 

Scott looks back at him in concern. “Stiles, you all right?”

“Yeah.” 

He doesn't lose his footing again, and moments later they are standing outside Derek's loft. Scott knocks on the door and stands back. Stiles stands silently beside him, waiting.

“What?” asks Derek opening the door. He doesn't look surprised to see them; he probably heard them coming up the stairs; he could probably smell them outside the door. “I don't have time for this. I need to be somewhere in half an hour.”

Scott looks at Derek and he gets a tough stubborn look. “We need to talk. Can we come in?”

Derek sighs and rolls his eyes. He steps back and ushers them in through the door. “What is it?”

Scott barely waits until they're inside before he demands, “Why are you back in Beacon Hills?”

 _Oh,_ thinks Stiles. _That's why we're here._ He presses his knuckles to his temple and tries to focus through the pain.

“None of your business,” says Derek, curtly. “Was that everything? Because, if it was, you can go now.”

Scott frowns and steps up to Derek. “No that wasn't everything, and you can't do that any more.” He shifts, taking a firm stance. “I'm an alpha too now. You can't just dismiss me.”

Derek's face goes still, and his gaze bores into Scott. He looks rigid and unmoving. Stiles slumps against the wall near the door and tries to pay attention. It's hard – the desert sun is particularly bright, and he wants to shade his eyes. There's no shade for miles and his shadow stretches across the sand, like liquid darkness. Stiles drags his eyes away and looks at Scott and Derek. Scott looks mulish and Derek looks as unmoving as stone. 

Stiles watches them through narrow eyes. Derek has his arms crossed and his brow furrowed. Scott's back is belligerent, and his stance is antagonistic. 

When he can't stand it any more, Stiles steps forward. He runs a hand over his head, pounding in time with his heart.

“Tell us why you're back, Derek,” he says, wanting this conversation to end.

Scott glances back at him, flashing him a thankful look. Stiles shrugs his shoulders and glances away.

Derek looks between Stiles and Scott. He glares. “I told you. It's none of your business.”

“I think it is,” says Scott, interjecting again, looking forceful and stubborn. “Deaton told me that an alpha, entering another alpha's territory, is required to state their business. So, Derek – why are you here?” 

Stiles squints barely about to see through the glare. 

Derek makes a frustrated gesture and strides over to the window, ghostly on the desert sand. He looks out at Beacon Hills and grips the window sill. His knuckles grow white with tension, but he doesn't throw a punch. He takes a deep breath and turns around. 

“I came here to ask my mother a question,” he says. “It's an old werewolf ritual, but it could only be done in Beacon Hills.” He sends Scott an aggressive look. “There. Happy?”

“You were talking to your dead mother?” asks Stiles, distracted from the shimmering heat of the desert. He blinks and the sand surrounding him disappears.

“Yes,” says Derek, sharp, his voice low.

“Why did you have to talk to her?” asks Scott. “What was so important that –”

Derek scowls, his expression fierce. “I'm not an alpha any more,” he says, eventually. “I needed to ask my mother something because I'm not an alpha any more. That's all I'm going to tell you. That's all you're finding out.”

Stiles raises his eyebrows, surprised. “You're not an alpha any more?”

Scott makes a shocked sound and steps forward. “What happened?”

“Peter happened,” says Derek. “He told me a way that I could save Cora... but it required me to give up my alpha powers.”

“You shouldn't have listened to Peter,” says Scott, looking angry. “You know he's nothing but bad news.”

“Cora's alive,” says Derek. “That's all that matters.”

“And you're not an alpha?” says Scott, incredulously. “Are you sure?”

Derek sends Scott a look of derision. “Yes, Scott. I'm sure. Now – Are you happy? I need to be somewhere at seven thirty. We can talk again to tomorrow, but I need to go now.”

Scott nods slowly. “Okay. Tomorrow, then. Be here after school.”

Derek rolls his eyes, but nods. “All right. I'll try and be here. Now... Get going. You know the way out.”

Stiles follows Scott back downstairs. Scott gives him a lift back home, where Stiles immediately gets into his jeep. He drives to town to get a chicken salad for his dad, and fries for himself. 

“Where have you been?” asks his dad, when he lets himself back in the door. “I expected you back before me.”

“I needed to do something with Scott,” says Stiles. “We needed to talk to Derek.”

His dad frowns and looks thoughtful. Stiles is surprised that he doesn't warn him off or tell him to stay away from Hale. He just looks at the take-away in Stiles' hand and says, “Dinner?”

“Yeah,” says Stiles. “I got you the chicken salad.”

His dad groans in disappointment. “Better give it here.”

Stiles gives a small, shadow of a grin. “If you're good you might get some of my fries.”

They eat quickly and Stiles makes his way up to bed. His dad looks up from a file as he passes, eyes narrow with concern. “You'll be all right.”

“I'll be fine, Dad,” says Stiles. “I might even sleep.” 

He's telling the truth, but no sooner is he in bed and drifting off than he –

…

– wakes up.

“Stiles. Stiles. It's going to be okay. That's right, son. Breath. Come on... Breath with me. In. Out. In. Out.”

“Dad,” gasps Stiles. “Dad, what – I... I don't know – I don't know. Please, no. Please... I don't know – I don't know.”

“What don't you know, Stiles?” 

“I don't know if I'm --”

…

Stiles wakes up. 

He standing in the centre of a clearing in the woods, and the sky is dark. There is a deep black sphere overhead – the new moon, hanging low over the earth. Stiles looks up and takes a breath, feeling a deep sense of calm. His headache is gone. He doesn't feel tired. 

The clearing is silent, and still. There is no wind in the trees and no animals in the forest. Stiles looks around and nothing moves. The silence is solemn, almost respectful. It is like standing in a place of worship; a cathedral beneath the stars. The atmosphere is regal and calm, and Stiles soaks it in, raising his face to the sky. 

“Do you know what you are?” 

The soft, feminine voice can be heard across the clearing. The voice sounds like the echo of a memory and it makes Stiles' breath catch in his throat. Stiles blinks and slowly lowers his gaze. He looks around at the trees, but he can't see the speaker. 

“No,” he says. “I don't know anything.”

The darkness is still and silent. Nothing moves. A long moment passes, and Stiles curls and uncurls his hands by his side. 

“You need to figure out what you are,” says the voice. “Or you will risk everything. You need to learn to see the truth when awake. Your subconscious can only protect you for a limited time. You need to start protecting yourself, with everything that you are, and everything that you can be. You need to wake up, Stiles. But you need to remember the dreams.”

“Who are you?” asks Stiles. “Why do you sound familiar?”

“I'm nothing, and no one,” says the speaker. “But there was a time when I walked in the world of men. I was human then.”

“You're not human now?”

Stiles steps forward and trying to pierce the darkness beyond the trees. He thinks he hears the rustles of a skirt, the sound of feet against dry leaves. 

“No Stiles,” says the voice. “I'm not human now, although I may yet be human again. We are seldom one thing for long. It is not in our nature.”

“Are you a shapeshifter?”

“I am much more than that. We are much more than that, Stiles. You and I especially.”

Stiles is silent for a long time. He blinks and turns about, looking around the clearing. He scrubs a hand over his face and feels his palm come away wet. “Mum?”

“Yes, Stiles?”

“I don't want to wake up.”

“I know – you've come deep, and there's a long way to travel back to the surface... but remember --”

“What?”

“Not everything you experience is a dream. And not every dream is false.”

Stiles nods. The dream fades and he – 

…

– wakes up.

He's lying in his dark bedroom. The door is ajar and he can see twin lights glowing in the darkness of the beyond. He squeezes his eyes shut. 

“Wake up,” he whispers. “You need to wake up and close the door. Wake up. Wake up. Wake up. Wake up...”


	6. Derek

**Derek**

Chris Argent is standing in front of the ruined house, unaware that he is observed. He is looking down at something on the ground. He kicks it over, and Derek sees that it is a brass door knob, warped by heat. The sharp pain that Derek feels when he recognises it at the door knob that used to belong to the front door is familiar and he pushes it away.

Derek waits a moment longer, then he approaches. When he nears the last of the trees surrounding the clearing, Chris hears him and looks up.

“Derek?”

Derek steps into the open, but doesn't come any closer. He stands near the treeline, his hands in the pockets of his jacket. He eyes Chris carefully, and scents the air. He can't see a weapon, and there is no smell of gunpowder, but that doesn't mean that it's not there. Chris is unlikely to have come to this meeting unarmed.

“Why did you ask me here?” asks Derek.

“Peter,” says Chris. “We need to talk about Peter.” Derek's brow lowers and he steps closer. Chris shrugs and steps away from the brass door knob, his feet crunching in the dead leaves that litter the forest floor. “Someone set off the alarms I have in place around the Nemeton. They tripped them near midnight, last night. Scott tells me you were with him. That means it must have been Peter.”

“How do you know?” asks Derek, wary. “It could have been a student; someone exploring the woods on a dare.”

Chris nods, calmly. He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a handkerchief. “It could have been,” he said. “But, whoever it was, they left a gift.” He opens the handkerchief to reveal five fingernails, sharp and long. “I can't imaging Talia Hale's fingernails are easy to come by.”

Derek stiffens. He steps forward and holds out a hand. “Give them to me.”

“Gladly,” says Chris. He wraps the nails back up in the handkerchief and steps forward to pass the whole thing to Derek. He steps back, and observes Derek with an assessing look. “We need to do something about Peter,” he says. “He's getting out of hand. He killed Jennifer, you know.”

Derek looks down at the forest floor, the brass doorknob is almost hidden among the layer of leaves. “I know,” he says. He looks up. “But he's been useful. I needed him to help me get these.” He glances down at the nails, one last time, before shoving them deep in the pocket of his jacket. 

“But you've got them now,” says Chris. “You don't need him any more.”

Derek nods. He looks up, and narrows his eyes. “What did you have in mind?”

Chris smiles and steps back. “I was hoping you would ask.”

…

Chris opens the door to his study and leads Derek over to the desk. “When the Oni came,” he says, unlocking one of the drawers and pulling it open. “I was struck by something.” He puts a dark wooden box on the desks table and looks up at Derek. “Did you know that the Oni only come when they're called? They're not like other dark creatures. They wouldn't be called here by the power of the Nemeton alone.”

Derek steps closer to the desk, looking down at the box. He shakes his head and looks up at Chris. “You think think that Peter has something to do with –?”

Chris shakes his head. “No,” he says. “I don't think Peter has anything to do with whatever called the Oni. I think he has something to do with the spirit they are chasing. The Oni come when their master or mistress senses that an evil spirit has entered the world near them, and then they seek the spirit tirelessly. The Oni appeared so soon after you returned...”

“You think that Peter brought one with him – an evil spirit – when we came back to Beacon Hills? That he's possessed?”

Chris sighs. He opens the dark box, revealing a heavy book, wrapped in cloth. He puts the book out on the table and opens it carefully to a page near the middle. “I don't think Peter's possessed,” he says. He taps on an illustration, red and black, depicting hell. “I think that Peter doesn't need to be possessed,” he says. “Peter died, and I don't think anyone in this town doubts that he went to hell. Peter isn't carrying the evil spirit. He _is_ the evil spirit.”

Derek leans over the page and narrows his eyes. He reads slowly, his lips moving. The book is written in archaic French, but Derek knows enough to make out what it says. “This is describing the eleven ways to send a demon back to hell,” he says, stepping back from the book. “You think that we'll need this to kill Peter.”

Chris nods and closes the book, carefully putting it back in the box. “I think we will,” he confirms. “I think this is exactly what we need.”

Derek watches as Chris shuts the box back in the desk, book safely nestled inside. 

Chris turns the key in the lock and stands up. His expression is grim and determined. “We'll need to find him, first” he says. “I already have people looking. Hunters in the woods and on the main roads out of Beacon Hills. We need to find him. But – when we do, we'll be ready.”

“And the Oni?” asks Derek. 

“Without a quarry they will disappear.”

Derek is silent for a long time. When he speaks, his voice is quiet. “I'll help,” he says. “But you can't expect me to kill my uncle. Not again.”

Chris nods in grim understanding. “Someone else will take care of that.”

…

Derek goes home exhausted and clambers into bed. He's wrung out and emotionally spread thin. Undone by the past in a way that he hasn't been for a very long time. Chris has brought old ghosts to the surface, and some of them seem close enough to touch. Derek stares up at the ceiling and _remembers_.

Derek has spent so long avoiding his memories of his childhood, that very few remain. After the fire, he couldn't bear the layers of pain and guilt that covered all his memories with a smeared and ugly grime, so he chose to shut them away entirely, locking them up, like priceless valuables to be preserved; putting them where he couldn't damage them, like he damaged everything else that was good in his life.

Derek doesn't have many memories of his childhood, but he does have some. And one, stubbornly bright and clear, surfaces that night while he lies in bed and blinks tiredly up at the ceiling above. 

In his memory, Derek is seven, and he's sitting on the edge of his sister's bed. Amelia is singing quietly to herself and plaiting her hair. She's going through a Disney phase, and she's insisted on growing her hair to her waist. Derek thinks it looks stupid, but his mother tells him to leave his twin alone. 

Amelia is singing the song from _Aladdin_. The one about finding a whole new world. Derek thinks it's stupid as well, just like his sister's hair. But... Amelia likes it, so when she falters, forgetting the words, Derek joins in, helping her continue. 

They're right near the end, about to finish, when Uncle Peter ducks his head around the door. He gives them a smile, his eyes crinkling at the corner with genuine amusement. “You ready to sleep, young songbirds?”

Amelia shakes her head and insists that she's not tired. Derek sits back and watches his sister charm their uncle. He swings his feet, and grins. 

Amelia pleads. Her lower lip quivers. She's just about to start crying when Uncle Peter caves. “One more song,” he says. “Then will you promise to go to bed?” 

Amelia readily agrees, and launches herself at their uncle, still young enough to trust he'll catch her. Derek just sits back and watches his Uncle dance around the room and sing, Amelia held high in his arms. 

The memory fades there. Derek can't see any more, and any others he might have are carefully locked away, but it's enough. 

It's enough for Derek to know that his Uncle wasn't always so bitter and cold. It's enough for him to know that there was once a time that Peter laughed and smiled, and indulged his second youngest niece with Disney songs before bed. 

It's enough for him to know that the fire killed his Uncle Peter as surely as it killed everyone else. 

The person Chris is chasing is not his uncle. He hasn't been for a very long time.

…

The next morning, Derek goes for a run. He circumnavigates the town. He doesn't find anything – but, then, he wasn't really expecting that he would. 

…

He returns to his loft and stops outside his door. The scent of panic and exhaustion are strong in the air. He opens his door, and Stiles – standing near the centre of the room – drops his bag. Stiles spins around, and Derek can hear his heart pounding in his chest. It calms when he sees Derek, falling back to an anxious syncopated patter. 

“Derek,” he says. “Sorry – I –” He looks around the room, and runs a hand over his head and closes his eyes. “I...” He trails off, sounding uncertain.

Derek watches him for a long moment, then he turns and closes the loft door. He turns back to Stiles and gives him a considering look. “What are you doing here, Stiles?”

Stiles opens his mouth, then he closes it, looking distressed. “I don't know.”


	7. Stiles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, by this point you can probably tell this isn't beta'd or looked over for American syntax/idiom. If you notice any glaring errors then please let me know. Also, great thanks to those who have commented. It's amazing to hear from those who are reading. I will reply as soon as my spare time permits!

Stiles

Stiles wakes up and he should be at school, but instead he's standing at the centre of Derek's loft. His backpack is on the ground by his feet, and he is stuttering, stumbling, trying to find an explanation for his presence. 

“I don't know,” he admits, and Derek gives him a long look. Stiles waits, not sure what else to say. His headache has subsided, but he can still feel the tension in his neck and shoulders. Stiles slowly reaches down and picks up his bag. “I'll go.”

Derek shakes his head and walks toward the kitchen. “No, don't,” he says. “I'll make us coffee.” He looks at Stiles and his gaze is dark and considering. “You don't have to tell me anything,” he says, sounding almost kind. “But, I did offer –”

“That you'd listen to me talk,” finishes Stiles. “I actually remember that conversation.” He runs a hand over his head, feeling so bone deep tired that he isn't sure he cares any more about what Derek does and doesn't know. He doesn't care if Derek discovers that he can barely tell what's real any more. He doesn't care, because nothing matters when everything is a dream. 

Derek moves around the kitchen and Stiles goes to the couch and slides down in front of it, onto the floor. He curls his legs up to his chest, and rests his forehead on his knees. 

The flat smells familiar – like cleaning liquid and Derek. It's calming. Stiles closes his eyes. He wonders what would happen if he went to sleep. The last time he was in Derek's loft he'd managed to dream that he slept for eight hours without nightmares. And whether it was real, or sleep within dream, it was the most rested Stiles has felt for weeks. Perhaps it will happen again. 

Derek comes over, puts a mug of coffee on the floor next to Stiles. He then sits on the couch, near enough that Stiles can see his denim clad leg in his peripheral vision when he opens his eyes, but far enough away that there was no danger of him intruding on Stiles' personal space. Stiles feels the muscles in his neck slowly unknot. He lets out a long breath. 

Derek doesn't say anything. True to form, he sits silently, apparently content to spend time breathing calmly and drinking his coffee in the quiet. 

For the first time in weeks, Stiles feels his heart settle on a beat that isn't jagged or angry. 

He closes his eyes again. Derek's presence is comforting at his side. Stiles is just grateful for the company. It's been a long time since anyone has offered him support. His father has tried, but Stiles has done everything he can to avoid it – well aware that his father already has too much on his plate. And, all of his other friends...

Stiles doesn't begrudge his friends their problems, or their romances. He knows that they've all got so much going on that he's hardly the top priority, but... 

Scott hasn't properly asked him how he's going in weeks, and he's never once tried to fully comprehend what Stiles is going through. Stiles told him about the dreams, days, weeks, months, years – honestly, it feels like years – ago, and Scott had just looked sympathetic and told him that it sucked. 

Stiles appreciates the sentiment, but there have been times since when he really would like something more.

Of course, it's not just Scott that's unobservant.. People in glass houses shouldn't throw stones, or some shit like that. It's not like Stiles has been going out of his way to check in with Scott, to find out how things are going with Kira, and just what sort of weirdness is going on with the twins. But... Stiles squeezes his eyes shit and fight the burning lack of sleep that prickles behind his eyes. 

Stiles hasn't been keeping up with Scot... but every day has felt like a month, and he's never sure what's real. He doesn't even know if asking does any good, or if this strange, almost gentle sequence of dreams in which he goes to school, researches kitsune, and apparently sits on Derek's floor and sleeps on his lounge, is the biggest psychotic break of them all. 

Stiles doesn't dwell on it for too long. It doesn't matter if it is a dream; he can't lie and say that it isn't nice to have someone by his side, asking him if he's okay, and offering support. It may only be Derek, and it may only be a dream, but he feels better so it counts. 

Derek shifts in his seat, putting his mug down on the small coffee table beside the lounge before settling again. He still doesn't speak. 

Stiles opens his eyes and blinks down at the floor of the apartment. He notices a small dash of orange paint on the floor near his shoe. He wonders if Ethan and Aiden had ever apologised for the rave. If he had to guess, he would say that they haven't. He looks down at the paint for a long moment, then he shifts his foot to cover it, hiding it away as though removing it from sight also removes it from the room.

He catches sight of the back of his hand as he moves, and glimpses dark swirls inscribed on his skin. He looks away quickly, and closes his eyes again. 

He doesn't dwell, but he can't help but wonder if he's awake. It's an ever present question – it has to be. At any given moment, for weeks and weeks, he's been unable to tell what is real and what is not. Some dreams – the darker, more vicious ones – seemed to be obvious nightmares, but even then, Stiles experiences them as though they are real. He wakes, tied to the Nemeton, caught in a basement, impaled with the birds on a cruel and ancient tree, and he is convinced that everything else is just a coping mechanism to help him deal with the fact that what he is really doing – really and truly – is dying a painful, angry death.

Stiles has no anchors to reality any more, but there are patterns in his dreams. Some dreams cycle around more frequently than others – like the ones where he is digging himself a grave beside his mother, and the ones where he is standing in the woods just outside the Hale house, listening to their laughter. Most frequent, of course, are the ones where he is lying in bed, unable to move, with dark creatures moving in the corridor beyond. 

Least frequent, and perhaps most memorable are these ones. The ones where he is just living his life. It's that fact which makes it possible for him to function as though his dreams are real. The narrative plays out in snippets, interspersed by long periods of horror and pain, but they stick with him, despite the days, weeks, years that seem to pass in between. 

Stiles opens his eyes and slowly uncoils from his foetal position, stretching his legs out in front of him in a loose sprawl. He takes several deep breaths. Beside him, Derek doesn't move, but Stiles imagines that if he had the ability to hear a heartbeat, Derek's would be beating a rhythm that spoke of burning curiosity and silent pity. 

Stiles reaches for his coffee and picks it up. It's cooled to lukewarm, but he savours it anyway, letting it roll over his tongue. 

Derek still doesn't speak. 

Stiles reflects that, of all the dreams within dreams, this is certainly one of the strangest. It has a peculiar, out-of-character, quality to it, that makes him wonder just what his subconscious actually thinks of Derek Hale if this is what he's dreaming up. 

Derek, to Stiles, has always been a distant figure, even when they are together. He's been aloof and distant; so ready to overlook Stiles and what he has to say, that Stiles has needed to jump and shout in order to be heard. Stiles had reflected, only once and only ever to himself, that it was because he only mattered to Derek insofar as he was Scott's best friend. As far as Stiles knows, in the real world, nothing has changed.

Here, however, Derek is sitting with him, offering comfort and support. It's as uncharacteristic as it is welcome. 

Stiles puts his mug on the ground and chooses not to question it too much. There's a good chance that this is only a dream after all. And if – _when_ – he wakes up, he'll have plenty of time to try and figure out why he chose to dream of Derek as his refuge instead of someone who would make sense like Lydia or Scott. 

Derek shifts again, but holds his silence. 

Stiles listens to him move, looks down at the ground, takes a deep breath and begins to speak. 

…

Eventually Stiles falls quiet. He waits for Derek to talk. He'd moved from the couch midway through Stiles' incoherent rambling and is now standing opposite Stiles, near the window. He's looking away, scowling down at Beacon Hills. 

“You need to talk to your father about the key,” says Derek. “He needs to know.” He glances back at Stiles, and his eyes are uncharacteristically concerned. “I don't know why you haven't told him before now.”

“Because I'm scared of what it means.” Stiles admits, curling his legs up against his chest and pressing his back against Derek's lounge. His backpack is on the floor by his legs, just inches away from the dark stain made by Boyd's blood. Stiles flinches and drags his backpack closer. “If I have the key because of all the reasons that I think I have the key...”

“Then?”

“Then that means that I told that crazy idiot to go and kill Kira. Why would I do that?”

“Maybe you didn't?” Derek's gaze catches Stiles. He looks sincere. Then he shrugs and looks away. “I know that I can't suggest anything that you probably haven't already thought already, but maybe someone else did it...”

“What? And they just happened to be using my body?”

Derek looks back around and his gaze narrows. “Is that's what you're worried about?”

“Yes,” admits Stiles, closing his eyes.

…

Stiles' is lying on the floor and his entire world is narrowed down to the pain in his hands and feet. He tries to move, but a tearing pain follows the action. It feels like there are nails driven through his palms. His fingers curl in scrabbling at the centre of his hands, feeling for the epicentre of the agony.

They find damp blood; slick pulpy flesh; a rusted nail at the centre. 

Stiles turns his head to the side and screams. 

…

Stiles wakes up to the sound of Derek's voice – “Stiles? You okay?”

“I'm fine,” he says rubbing his face with his left hand. His heart slows and the last of the pain in his hands fades. “I'm sorry, I just drifted for a moment. What were you saying?”

“I'm saying that you need to tell someone about everything that's happening to you. You need to ask for help.”

Stiles frowns and looks down at the lounge. It's covered with a faded brown material, worn at the centre from years of use. Stiles wonders where it came from, who it belonged to before Derek brought it here to his loft. He traces a loose thread where it trails across the covers. The path it follows is erratic and strange, travelling perpendicular to the weave. He closes his eyes. 

“I can't.”

“You're talking to me. Other people can't be that much different.”

“You offered,” say Stiles. “Or... at least, one of you offered. Apparently my subconscious took that as an invitation. I can't imagine why else --”

“Why else you'd be here?” asks Derek, still behind Stiles.

“Yeah,” says Stiles, running a hand over his face. “I can't imagine why else I'd be here.”

Stiles opens his eyes.

Derek is standing in front of him, holding out a glass of water. “You need a drink,” he says. “You're looking pale.”

Stiles reaches out with a shaking hand and raises the water to his lips. “Thanks,” he says. “I'm --” He presses a hand to his forehead. “Do you have any aspirin? I have a killer headache.”

“Sure,” says Derek. “I'll get them for you. Rest your eyes.”

Stiles nods tiredly and leans back against the lounge. “Okay.”

…

Stiles takes the aspirin and leaves, telling Derek that he really should get to school for the afternoon classes. He claims to have a test in chemistry – one that he really can't miss. 

Derek watches him go with dark eyes, and Stiles can't read his expression at all. He's too tired to try and translate the meaning of the stern curve in Derek's lip; the grim line of his brow. He just takes his leave and promises Derek that he'll tell his dad. He's lying, and he knows that Derek can tell, but he doesn't care. 

A part of him almost hopes that Derek will tell his dad for him – save him from having to make that decision himself. 

He makes it back to school in time to discover that he really did have a chemistry test that afternoon. He fails the tests, but really doesn't care. When school is over, he leaves as quickly as he can, waving away Scott's offer of a lift and “Weren't we going to see Derek?”, by claiming to have a headache. 

The excuse has the benefit of being true, and Stiles can tell the moment that Scott recognises that he's not lying. His friends face falls into an expression that is all concerned lines, sincere sorrow, and determination to make things better. Stiles brushes away Scott's concern, saying that all he needs is some rest, and goes home – reminded, for the first time in awhile, why he's always thought that Scott was one of the nicest people he knows.

That night he goes to sleep, exhausted and aching, and wakes up in a cave deep in the forest, held down by Melissa and Rafa McCall. In his head all he can hear is the sound of his mother saying 'figure out who you are' while the dark creature writes the symbol for 'self' in chalk on the basement wall.


End file.
